Sonnet 9.

RAigne in my thoughts, faire hand, sweete eye, rare voice,
Possesse me whole, my harts Triumuirate:
Yet heauie hart to make so hard a choice,
Of such as spoyle thy whole afflicted state.

For whilst they striue which shall be Lord of all,
All my poore life by them is trodden downe;
They all erect their triumphs on my fall,
And yeelds me nought: who gaines them there renowne.

When backe I looke, and sigh my freedome past,
And waile the state wherein I present stand,
And see my fortune euer like to last;
Finding me reynd with such a cruell hand,
What can I doo but yeeld, and yeeld I doo,
And serue them all, and yet they spoyle me too.